Aftermath
by Erinne Willows
Summary: Sequal to: You Can't Change the Past. Basically, how Hotch reacts to Reid's phone call, and what happens after that. Rated for strong language...mostly...Character death...


A/N: So – this is the sequal to You Can't Change the Past.

Okay – so more angst. From Hotch this time…

Disclaimer: um they're not mine. But I really wish they were, cuz they're just so cool! Anyway – happy readings…

Ticking – a long drone of unending ticking, echoing against the bare kitchen walls from an old, hung-up clock. It treads on your nerves, constantly jabbing them with the pointed ends of their feet – and your headache increases thanks to the increase in volume caused by the empty walls. Tick. Tick. Tick. And really, all you want to do is grab your FBI issued gun and take one shot at the annoying, ticking device – because you remember how to shoot even after half a bottle of scotch and you really couldn't stand that clock even before the ticking started echoing. It was Haley's clock and you're not even sure why you brought it with you to this boring old apartment, but you did, and you hate it because it won't leave you alone, and it seems with every tick, it's reminding you of how you drove your wife and son away. And then you feel guilty because you never really loved her, but it was expected to settle down and marry. So you did. Then your mother had to go and die of a stroke, and it didn't really matter anymore what you did, but you couldn't leave her now, because there was Jack – and you did love him.

Now she's gone and she's taken Jack with you, and you're surprised to find it doesn't really hurt all that bad to find out she's been cheating on you ever since you joined the BAU. You're almost glad she's left, because now you don't have to be the bastard – you can be the victim, the cut-up, poor, SOB that got left by his bitch wife for some ass-hole who couldn't keep his hands off a married woman…or something like that. And anyway, now it seems perfectly reasonable for you to "drown your sorrows" in a bottle of scotch, even though it's been a little while. It's better this way, you have to keep reminding yourself, because now you don't have to explain that the reason you never loved her was that you were gay, but knew your mom'd have a coronary if she found out, so it didn't really matter what girl you married as long as you were married before she managed to die. Or something like that.

You could feel guilty for leading her on like that – and you could feel guilty about having a crush on someone you work with – but you don't and you won't because it's just not worth it anymore, and now all you feel like doing is punching the wall, which even with your alcohol-induced brain doesn't seem like a good idea. You're going to have a much worse headache when you wake up tomorrow, though. Damn alcohol. All it does is make everything worse – the fact that you probably won't be allowed to see your son for a long time; after all, you didn't go after his mother – why should she let you see him? You could hate her, you really could, but you could never love her because you've loved someone else for so long, it's a wonder you weren't cheating on her. But you'd never do that, because regardless of feelings, you actually honored your wedding vows. You close your eyes, leaning back against the refrigerator door. You're sitting on the floor, and it almost makes you want to laugh, and cry and scream and call the one you love just to hear his voice – but it's a bad idea – starting anything right now when you're so fucked up you can hardly stand yourself is an extremely bad idea.

Your cell phone rings, and you look at the caller ID to see that it's _him_, the one you really wanted to talk to, and now, faced with the opportunity, you almost don't pick up the phone – but what if it's a case? And you have to.

"Hotch." You're not even sure how you made your voice that steady. Silence answers you, and now you're worried.

"Reid? Are you there? Reid?" You wonder if he can hear the concern lacing your voice, you're too tired, to drunk to keep the emotions out…

"I'm sorry…" His voice is soft, but harsh, as if talking is difficult – and you can barely hear the whisper – but you do. And you panic.

"Reid? Reid, where are you? What's wrong?" _Oh God Reid, ohgodohgodohgod…_

You waited for a response, you babble into the phone – you yell for God's sake!

Then…

"Hello?" A new voice – a little scratchy, a little…terrified…

"Hello? Where is he? Where is Reid?" You almost slur, you almost scream – but you want answers, and you're not willing to scare away your informant because you're scared out of your mind.

"Basement of the FBI building – God this is bad…" You didn't hear anymore – the phone was dropped – you were out the door.

Screw the fact that you'd just been drinking – screw the fact you were too emotional to be driving – screw the fact that you almost fell down the stairs in your distress to get outside.

Driving wasn't driving anymore – it was a desperate race – the whole time you're praying to God you aren't too late, even though you know you probably are, and anyway, you haven't prayed to God since you were a small child and your mother dragged you to church so you could look like a nice church-going family, when she had no idea what her husband did to you. You were racing, and praying, and at one point you could have sworn you ran a red light, and you knew the police were behind you – _just let me get there – just let me get there!_ You want to scream at them – _don't you understand how important it is that I get there on time!_ Then you're there – and you're stumbling out of the car on unsteady legs – running flat out at the door with the police on your tail – and you're trying not to fall down the stairs to basement – and you're there and you're so close to tears, you wonder why you're not crying already – then you see him – see him lying on his back with paramedics bent over his limp form – and someone's got gauze around his wrists, and another's got the defibrillator and your heart contracts every time the medic yells "clear"…

This can't be real – it can't be real, but as your back hits the wall, and you realize you've been backing up, and the tears slide down your face, and your brain's in too much of a haze to actually understand what's going on…

And when you hear one of them call out time of death – you know it's true. That you'll never wake from this hellish nightmare, that there's nothing you can do – absolutely nothing.

Spencer Reid – boy genius – love of your life.

Time of death: 1:24 in the morning.

A/N: Wow. Okay, so I didn't really think I'd be able to kill him off – mostly cuz I love him too much. This was kind of just like the one before this – completely typed in a rush, when I really didn't know what was going to come out.


End file.
